A Diagnosis of Guilt
by Nonny A
Summary: When one of Mark’s schemes goes awry, and Steve is almost killed, Mark has trouble coping with his feelings of guilt


Disclaimer: "Diagnosis Murder" and the characters in it are owned by CBS and Viacom and are merely being borrowed here for recreational, non-profit purposes.

Rating: G

Summary: When one of Mark's schemes goes awry, and Steve is almost killed, Mark has trouble coping with his feelings of guilt.

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A DIAGNOSIS OF GUILT

Chapter 1

Lt. Steve Sloan crouched behind the storage bin, intently watching the confrontation between the two men at the end of the pier. This wasn't the first time he had let his father talk him into using Mark to get a surreptitiously recorded confession from a killer. It was a tactic they had used many times before – having his dad, in an apparently ill-considered move, encounter a suspect and lure him into an unguarded statement that could be used to prove his guilt. It relied on the killer thinking that Mark had gotten carried away by his curiosity, thoughtlessly allowing himself to be caught alone betraying his suspicions to the suspect. In reality, of course, he was wearing a wire, with Steve and a police backup unit standing by monitoring the entire proceedings. Steve had often wondered how anyone who had become at all acquainted with his father could possibly imagine that he would be that stupid; but he had to admit that Mark had an absolute genius for somehow projecting a kindly, curious, non-threatening persona. He grinned to himself as he recalled that a young friend of theirs had recently compared Mark to a koala bear – cute, friendly, and harmless in appearance, but very, very dangerous. 

So if this was just one more repeat of a tried-and-true performance, why was he having such bad feelings about it? Of course, this wasn't quite the same as all the other times. This time, trapping this suspect was just half the job. They were pretty sure that their current quarry, a man named Michael Donaldson, had been talked into committing the actual murder by a second party – the "brains" behind the crime, so to speak. It was Mark's belief that, if they could trap Donaldson in a situation where he was sure to be convicted, he would finger the man who had put him up to it. Maybe it was the hovering specter of this unknown player that was bothering Steve. There was also the fact that the victim had been a long-time friend of Mark's, and Steve felt that his dad had become a little too emotionally involved in the investigation. While Steve had to admit that this plan to trap and use Donaldson to catch the real author of the crime made sense, he had found himself unusually resistant to the idea. However, he had allowed himself to be persuaded. Now, as he monitored the conversation between his father and Donaldson, he felt a heightened degree of tension.

As Steve listened, he heard what he had been waiting for. Donaldson had succumbed to the temptation to brag to his one-person audience about his cleverness, obviously assuming that Mark wouldn't be around long enough to tell anyone else. 

"Okay, move in," Steve whispered into his walkie-talkie, signaling his partner and backup to come forward to ensure that there was no problem with the arrest. Normally, he would have had the other officers right behind him, but hiding places were scarce on the mostly open pier. So Steve had taken up a position behind the storage bin, and stationed his backup force inside the nearest building – about 100 yards away. The fact that this setup left his father more exposed than usual had done nothing to alleviate his uneasiness with this whole situation. He pulled his gun and stepped out in plain sight, just as the suspect was telling Mark that he was about to have an unfortunate, fatal boating accident.

"I don't think so, Donaldson," Steve declared, keeping his gun leveled on the killer, who had started to grab Mark. 

As Donaldson turned involuntarily, Mark managed to pull away and slip out of his grasp. 

"Just step back, and keep your hands where I can see them," Steve ordered, as he walked toward them. Donaldson took a step backwards and toward the edge of the dock. Steve noticed his proximity to the water, and guessed that he was going to try to jump for it. "Don't even think about it," he warned, clicking off the safety on his gun. "At this range, the bullet'll hit you before you hit the water." Casting a quick glance at the distance between himself and the water, and seeing how close Steve was, Donaldson caved in.

Steve pulled out his handcuffs and started to cuff the prisoner. As he did, several shots rang out. Steve felt a bullet strike him, throwing him backwards off the edge of the dock. The last thing he heard, before darkness and the water claimed him, was the sound of his father's voice shouting his name.

Chapter 2

"**_Steve_**!" Mark called out as his son was propelled off the side of the pier. He heard running footsteps and shouts of "Put down your weapon!" and realized that the police backup had arrived. Ignoring the commotion, he ran to the edge of the dock, desperately searching the water for any sign of Steve. As he leaned over the edge, he felt a hand grab his arm and looked up to see Steve's partner Cheryl.

"Steve's been hit," Mark told her, trying to keep the panic out of his voice. "He went off the dock here." They both peered into the water for a moment; then Cheryl cried out, "There!" pointing to a dark shape floating a few yards away. Another officer jumped in and swam out to retrieve Steve. 

"Call an ambulance," Cheryl ordered. She looked back at Mark, noticing how white and shaky he was. "Were you hit?" she asked, looking him over carefully.

Mark shook his head. "No. But Donaldson…" He looked over to where Steve and Donaldson had been standing, remembering for the first time that their prisoner, too, had gone down during the shooting. He quickly moved to check the fallen man. There was no pulse; Donaldson had been shot twice in the chest, puncturing the heart.

"He's dead," Mark reported. 

He rejoined Cheryl just as she and another officer were pulling Steve up from the water. They carefully laid the limp form on the dock, and Mark immediately knelt beside him, checking for a pulse. 

"There's no pulse, I'm starting CPR," he told Cheryl as he moved into position to start chest compressions. "Can you do the ventilation?" She nodded, and they worked together to resuscitate Steve. 

As he performed the familiar motions, Mark's eyes anxiously scanned his son's body, searching for the bullet wound. The water had washed away the initial signs of bleeding, but as he compressed Steve's heart, forcing blood through his veins again, Mark saw red begin to stain his son's shirt. 

"Grab a cloth and put pressure on that wound," he ordered Cheryl, "so he doesn't bleed out." She complied, managing to keep one hand pressed against the wound while she continued the rescue breathing.

For Mark, the universe had shrunk to the size of that small section of pier, as he focused completely on the attempt to revive his son. Nothing else mattered, nothing else existed – just the motionless body before him and the rhythmic movements that would hopefully restore life to it. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind was confusion about what had gone wrong, a sense of failure that things had not gone as predicted, even dismay at Donaldson's death. But for now, his entire consciousness was consumed with a silent mantra focused on dragging his son back to life. _Come on Steve, come on…._

What seemed an eternity later, a faint rasping breath emerged from Steve's chest, followed by another. Mark stopped the compressions, and placed his fingers again on Steve's neck. The pulse was there – faint at first, then strengthening. The relief that washed over him was so intense he felt lightheaded. With a great effort, he pulled himself together and realized that the ambulance had arrived. He hadn't even heard the approaching siren. He watched as the EMTs bandaged his son, checking for himself to see that no more drastic measures were needed before they did so. 

As the medics lifted Steve onto the stretcher, Mark got shakily to his feet, gratefully accepting a hand from Cheryl. He looked around, taking in, for the first time, the details of the scene around him. He noticed a man dressed in dark clothing, handcuffed and surrounded by police officers. He recognized him as Jason Connelly – one of the people Steve and he had considered as possibly being the unknown person behind Donaldson. Cheryl noticed where Mark was looking.

"He must have come up from beneath the pier," she said. "We never saw him until he started shooting."

Mark nodded. "He must have been following Donaldson – planning to silence him if it looked like he was going to talk." He looked back to the ambulance, where Steve was just being loaded into the back. 

"I'm going in with Steve," he told Cheryl. She nodded in return.

Chapter 3

At Community General, Mark felt as if he were operating in an emotional vacuum, moving through the process of dealing with Steve's injuries as if it were all happening to someone else. He watched as Jesse examined Steve, agreed with him that the bullet wound didn't seem too severe, discussed the possibility of water remaining in Steve's lungs potentially leading to pneumonia or infection. But through it all, he remained numb. Only when Steve began to show signs of returning consciousness, concern showing on his face as he felt himself coughing up water, did a slight crack appear in that unnatural detachment. Mark put a reassuring hand on his son's arm. "It's alright, son," he said, his voice deep and soothing. "You're okay. You're in the ER, and everything's going to be fine." He wasn't sure Steve was conscious enough to understand what he was saying, but the tone and voice seemed to quiet him down. As Steve's eyes closed again, Mark stepped back as the nurses began to prep him for surgery to remove the bullet. As they wheeled the gurney carrying Steve out of the room and down the corridor, Mark's eyes followed his son until he was out of sight.

Once the gurney disappeared, Mark stood in the hallway for a moment, feeling drained and isolated, unsure what to do now that there was no activity to focus on. Feeling totally at a loss, he found himself heading for the familiarity of his office. He went inside, closed the door, and dropped heavily into his desk chair. With nothing else to divert his attention, now that his son's care was out of his hands, his thoughts turned to the events at the pier. How had things gone so wrong? It had seemed such a logical, promising plan – how had it led to the death of one man and the near-death of his own son? Mark felt the numbing shell that had been encasing him dissolve, leaving him with a bitter sense of failure and regret. Why hadn't it occurred to him that their mysterious "second murderer" might realize, as they had, that Donaldson could prove a very awkward link to him – and might decide to watch that link very closely? He had thought they had taken every precaution, that the plan was so clever; he had been so sure it would come off the way he envisioned. His mind went back to his discussion with Steve, and he remembered how Steve had been so reluctant to go along with him this time. _I should have listened to him,_ he thought. _If I had, my son wouldn't be in the OR right now, and Donaldson would still be alive._ He dropped his head in his heads, succumbing to the grief and guilt.

Some time later – Mark had totally lost track of time – he was brought out of his painful reverie by a knock on the door. Pulling himself together with an effort, he called, "Come in." The door opened and Amanda Bentley entered.

"Mark?" She looked at him in concern. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, Amanda," Mark replied. "I just came in here to wait for Jesse. Steve… " 

Amanda interrupted him: "I know, Mark – Jesse told me. He's been looking for you; they're done with the surgery."

Mark looked at his watch, shocked at how much time had gone by. "I didn't realize I was in here so long," he said. "How's Steve – is everything okay?"

"Jesse said everything went fine," Amanda reassured him. "When he didn't find you in the doctor's lounge, and you didn't answer your page, he came down to see if you were with me."

"I didn't hear a page," Mark said in surprise. He checked his pager to find that it wasn't working. "The battery must be dead."

Amanda looked at her friend, still concerned. Mark's face was gray and lined with exhaustion, and he still sounded shaky. From what Jesse had told her of Steve's injury, it hadn't sounded that serious; Mark seemed to be taking it harder than the situation warranted.

"Come on, Mark, we'll go see Jesse," she said. "I told him to go sign out while I checked up here for you."

They found Jesse just finishing his final notes on his patients. He looked up as they approached, and greeted Mark with a mixture of surprise and curiosity.

"Hey, where were you hiding? I figured you'd be waiting for me in the lounge."

"Sorry, Jesse," Mark replied. "I went to my office and lost track of time. How's Steve?"

"He's fine," Jesse responded easily. "The bullet removal was pretty routine. We suctioned out the fluid that was left in his lungs. I've put him on prophylactic antibiotics as we discussed; hopefully that'll ward off any infection."

Mark nodded in relief. "Is he out of recovery yet?"

"They just brought him out. They were putting him in room 301." 

"Thanks, Jesse." Without further comment, Mark turned to go up to Steve's room, leaving Jesse and Amanda exchanging puzzled glances. Mark had barely spoken except to ask about Steve – he hadn't given them any information about what had occurred. Such reticence was highly unusual. Since Jesse and Amanda were aware of the Sloans' plan for trapping Donaldson, he must know that they'd be wondering what had happened. It wasn't like Mark to shut them out. Jesse had just finished an extended shift, but Amanda was working late anyway. She decided that work could wait a bit longer while she talked to Mark.

Amanda found Mark standing at the side of Steve's bed, staring down at him. He turned as she entered, looking mildly surprised to see her.

"Mark, are you alright?" she asked him.

"I'm fine, Amanda," he replied. 

"You look exhausted," she said, concern lacing her voice.

Mark raised an eyebrow. "Well, it's been a rather stressful evening," he said dryly.

"You haven't even told us what happened," she reminded him. 

Mark looked faintly surprised. "I guess there hasn't been much time to talk about it," he said. 

"How about taking the time now?" Amanda asked. She saw him hesitate, glancing at his sleeping son, and added, "Steve's not going anywhere. If you're afraid of waking him, we can talk in the lounge." Mark saw the concern in her face, and realized that he had been so caught up in his own emotional turmoil that he hadn't given any thought to his friends.

"I'm sorry, Amanda," he said, passing his hand across his face. "I think I must be suffering from shock or something. Come on – we'll go to the lounge so we don't disturb Steve."

Once in the doctor's lounge, Amanda fixed Mark a cup of coffee, adding extra sugar. "Come on, you know sugar's good for shock," she told him when he made a face at it. "Besides, I get the feeling you haven't eaten much today." 

"I guess I haven't," Mark said, considering it. He looked at Amanda with greater awareness, suddenly realizing how late it was. "What are you still doing here, anyway?" he asked her.

"I'm working late tonight," she replied. "Half my staff is out sick, and it seems to be busy season for the morgue."

"And I've probably just added to it," Mark said, sounding depressed. Seeing Amanda looking at him in confusion, he explained, "Michael Donaldson was killed tonight."

"Tell me what happened, Mark," Amanda said gently. 

Mark gave her a brief summary of the night's events, his voice faltering slightly as he related his son's brush with death. "Not one of my more successful plans," he ended dryly, staring down at his empty coffee cup. Amanda placed a sympathetic hand on his shoulder.

"No wonder you've been wandering around in shock tonight," she observed. "Mark, this wasn't your fault." There was no reaction from the older doctor, who continued to gaze unseeingly into his cup. She looked at him appraisingly. Between shock and exhaustion, it wasn't surprising he was suffering from a depressive reaction, she thought. She tightened her grip on his shoulder. "Go on home, Mark. You really need to get some sleep." 

He looked up at her. "I will. But I'm just going to sit with Steve for a bit first." 

"Mark, Steve's going to be fine. It's not going to make him feel any better if you get yourself over exhausted."

He dredged up a slight smile. "I know. And I'm not planning on staying here all night. I promise I'll go home in a while."

She looked at him doubtfully, but accepted his assurances. "Okay. I'll be down in the path lab if you need me." He nodded and went back down the hall to Steve's room.

Back in Steve's room, Mark sat beside him, just watching him. He placed a hand on his son's forehead, and was thankful to feel no evidence of a fever developing. In fact, with the hospital gown covering the bandage on Steve's chest, there was no obvious sign of his injury or close brush with drowning. But for a brief moment, the image of his son's pale and lifeless form, as he lay on the dock earlier, superimposed itself over the current reality. Mark closed his eyes momentarily, his heart constricting at the memory. 

As he sat at his son's bedside, Mark tried to sort through the various pangs of guilt and regret he felt over the debacle of his plan to trap Donaldson. The deepest pain came from the thought that he had insisted on going through with his plan against Steve's reservations. He wondered if he had allowed a personal desire to avenge his friend to override his good judgement. Or perhaps, he thought dismally, he was losing his judgement. He found himself thinking that, not so long ago, his underestimation of Carter Sweeney had cost himself, his son, and their friends their jobs. This time, he thought, his misjudgment had almost cost his son his life. _Maybe it's time I quit_, he reflected miserably, _before the worst happens._

Chapter 4

Steve awoke the next morning with only the haziest recollection of what had happened after the confrontation on the pier. He remembered being shot and falling off the dock, but there were only vague and fuzzy images between then and awakening here in the hospital room. What bothered him most was that he had no idea what had happened to his father during the shooting. He concentrated on trying to focus his vague impressions from the emergency room. He was pretty sure he remembered Mark being there, assuring him that he was going to be fine. Of course, that was, unfortunately, a not uncommon image in his mind; and since the memory wasn't exactly clear, he couldn't be 100 percent certain that he wasn't confusing it with some other time he had been injured and rushed to the ER. _I've obviously done this too often,_ he thought – _it's all starting to blur together_. He was slightly reassured by the memory, but he'd feel happier when he actually saw his father. Since the nurses and blood lab techs had already been in and out, he figured he shouldn't have long to wait.

Jesse entered the room a few minutes later, greeting him cheerfully. "Good morning! I see you're awake nice and early."

"It's not like I had any choice," Steve grumbled. "People have been in and out of here poking at me since dawn."

Jesse grinned at him. "You know that's the way hospitals work. You should be getting used to it by now."

"I don't plan on getting used to it. I plan on avoiding it," Steve replied. "How soon can I get out of here?"

"Actually, it should be a short stay this time. The bullet wound isn't too serious, and as long as you don't develop any complications from all that water you inhaled, you should be able to leave in a day or two."

"Good." Satisfied on that front, Steve's thoughts returned to his father. "You know, Jess, I seem to be a bit hazy on what happened after I got shot. I did see Dad in the ER with me last night, didn't I? He's okay?"

"He's fine," Jesse replied, slightly surprised. "Hasn't he been in here yet this morning?"

"No, I haven't seen him since I woke up."

"Well, he's probably just a bit late getting in," Jesse said. "Amanda said he was still in here when she left around midnight. He probably needed the extra sleep."

A faint crease appeared between Steve's brows. While his father would stay with him around the clock when there was anything uncertain or critical about his condition, Mark was usually pretty sensible about going back home and getting some sleep when the injuries were not particularly threatening. "I thought you said there wasn't anything seriously wrong," he said.

"There isn't," Jesse responded. "But when they first pulled you out of the water, you were in total arrest. Mark had to do CPR to bring you back. He tends to get a bit unnerved afterwards when he's had to resuscitate you."

__

Damn, thought Steve. He hated knowing his father had had to go through that anxiety again. Well, at least he knew Mark was alright. Jesse stayed to perform his physical exam, checking the wound and listening to his lungs to make sure there were no signs of respiratory problems; then he had to return to the ER.

It was about an hour later when Mark finally showed up in Steve's room. Steve was watching TV at the time, and Mark stood quietly in the doorway for a moment, unnoticed, watching his son. In the cold light of day, after a few hours of fitful sleep, he recognized that part of his reaction last night was due to the emotional shock of seeing his son shot right in front of him, coming on top of the grief he had already been feeling over the murder of his friend. But he found that his assessment of what he considered his lapse in judgement was unchanged. He hoped he could hide his unaccustomed depression from his son for the time being. He didn't want to talk about it yet – not until he had a chance to sort out what he planned to do about it. And certainly not here in the hospital where they would undoubtedly face constant interruptions. 

Steve looked over as his father entered, and smiled warmly. "Hey, Dad. Get a good night's sleep?"

"Just fine, thanks," Mark responded with as cheerful a smile as he could summon up. "How about you?"

"Oh I did great – at least until people started popping in and out of here at the crack of dawn. I can't believe you wake people up around here by sticking needles into them and taking their blood," he joked. "I think you're just trying to sneak some extra supplies for the blood bank."

"Actually, we have a vampire who lives in the basement," Mark replied, grinning faintly. "We have to give him his breakfast before the sun comes up." He paused for a moment, for once failing to continue the natural give and take of banter between them. Not wanting his awkwardness to become apparent, he held out the small duffel bag he had brought from home. 

"I brought some of your things," he said. "Your razor, the book you've been reading, and some clothes."

"Thanks. Jesse says I can go home in a day or two."

"Good." Another slight pause. "Well, I'm afraid I overslept a bit, and I'm running late for a patient appointment," Mark said apologetically. "I'll be by later."

"Okay; see you later," Steve replied. He stared after his father, puzzled. Something seemed off in his father's manner – and he hadn't even gotten a chance to ask Mark about what exactly had happened last night. He was distracted from his thoughts, however, by the arrival of his next visitor: his partner, Cheryl.

"I want to tell you how sorry I am that we let Connelly get past us," she apologized, after the initial greetings and inquiries as to how he was feeling. "He must have come up from beneath the pier just before we came out from the building." She looked at Steve, regret in her face. "I guess we slipped up on that one – we should have been watching more closely."

"Jason Connelly?" Steve repeated. "I never saw who was doing the shooting. What exactly happened?"

Cheryl looked at him in surprise; she had assumed that Mark would have already told Steve all about it. However, she obligingly gave him the story.

"Connelly apparently followed Donaldson, and was hiding beneath the pier. When you showed up, he must have hoped that he could kill Donaldson before he could tell you anything, then slip back out under the pier without being seen. It wasn't a bad plan. If we hadn't been coming out just as he started shooting, he might even have gotten away with it." She looked at her partner seriously, her face clouding over. "As it was, he succeeded in killing Donaldson – and for a while there we were afraid he'd managed to kill you, too. Your father was beside himself – I don't think I've ever seen him so upset." She smiled slightly. "I think he was about to go in after you himself, but we managed to keep him on the dock while Michaels brought you in." The smile faded, however, as she continued: "I thought we'd lost you for good when we first hauled you up; luckily your dad got you going again." She shook off the memory, and reported briskly: "We booked Connelly. The DA's agreed to charge him with the original murder, Donaldson's murder, and your attempted murder. He's sure it'll stick."

The two detectives talked a while longer about the case, then Cheryl had to leave. 

The rest of the morning and afternoon passed uneventfully. Jesse and Amanda both stopped by at various times for a brief visit, but, to Steve's surprise, he didn't see any more of his father. By late afternoon, Mark's continued absence was positively glaring. When Amanda stopped by for the second time, while Jesse was giving Steve a final checkup before leaving for the day, Steve decided to push his friends for some information.

"So where's Dad?" he asked. He saw his friends exchange uncomfortable glances and waited for the response.

"He seems to have left," Jesse said. 

"'Seems'?" Steve repeated.

"Well, I didn't actually see him leave, but he cleared his calendar for the rest of the day and signed out." 

Steve watched his friends' faces and waited for the rest of the story. They all knew it was totally unlike Mark to leave without stopping in to see Steve. Obviously, something was going on here, and equally obviously, his friends had been hoping not to have to tell him about it. Finally, Steve broke the silence himself.

"So is somebody going to tell me what's up, or do I have to start an interrogation?"

"Nothing's up," Jesse said. "It's just that Mark's been a bit – distracted – all day. I think he's still upset about last night."

"Did he say anything to you guys?"

"He's been pretty much avoiding everyone," Jesse replied. "He's been acting kind of strange ever since he brought you in last night."

Seeing Steve looking concerned, Amanda said quietly, "When I talked to Mark last night, I got the impression that he was feeling guilty about what happened."

Steve considered that. He knew his father had an extremely strong sense of personal responsibility, and the plan to trap Donaldson had been his idea. But it seemed to Steve that if that were the problem, it would be more typical of his father to come to him with an apology than to avoid him. Besides, in Steve's opinion, not catching Connelly before he had a chance to start shooting was more a failure on his part for not having sufficient safety precautions in place and not making sure that their backup was alerted to watch for threats from a source other than Donaldson. 

"What exactly did he say?" Steve asked Amanda.

"It's not so much what he said," Amanda replied thoughtfully. "It was more his attitude. I got the feeling that he felt that his plan was responsible for Donaldson's death and for you getting shot." She looked at him gravely, trying to put into words her impressions of how and why Mark had been so strongly affected. "Steve, you've got to understand that this was different from other times you've been hurt. This time, you were essentially killed right in front of your dad – remember, you were in total arrest when they pulled you out of the water. Mark was wandering around in shock a good portion of last night. I think he's having a hard time dealing with thinking that it's his fault."

Steve stared at her for a moment, taking in the implications of what he had just heard. Knowing his father, he could imagine how deeply such a feeling of responsibility must be eating at him. There had been times before when he knew his father had felt a heavy burden of responsibility for things that had happened as a result of his part in various criminal investigations. The most notable ones that came to mind were during their dealings with the Sweeneys. But he had never been one for exposing his own pain and troubles to the world, and he had always managed to present a reasonably normal front to the people around him. And he certainly hadn't avoided his son and his closest friends. His current behavior argued a degree of emotional distress that his son wasn't about to let continue unabated.

"Jesse, I need a ride home," he declared abruptly.

"Steve …" Jesse started to protest.

"Come on, Jess," Steve interrupted. "You just said, a few minutes ago, that you were probably going to release me in the morning anyway. This is just a couple of hours early."

"Yeah, but if we hold you until morning, it'll have been over 36 hours, we'll have a couple more blood samples to make sure there's no infection brewing, and we can keep checking to make sure there's no signs of pneumonia."

"Look, you can take another blood sample now, and I'll come back in the morning if you need another one then. And I live with a doctor, remember? I'm sure Dad can check me for signs of pneumonia if necessary." When Jesse hesitated, he added, "Look, Jess, I need to go talk to Dad. I could walk out of here 'against medical advice', but I'd rather be able to tell Dad that you okay'd it – I'd like to avoid giving him one more thing to worry about."

"That's right, blame it all on me," Jesse quipped. "Okay, I guess I can take the heat from Mark for releasing you early – just make sure you don't end up back in here with complications!"

Steve gave him a slight smile in response. "I won't." He looked at his friends. "Thanks. Now get out of here so I can get dressed!"

Chapter 5

Steve arrived at the house, Jesse having dropped him off on his way home, and went out onto the deck. He looked out across the beach, and saw his father walking alone along the shoreline – a familiar habit when Mark was depressed or wrestling with a difficult problem. Steve walked across the beach to where his father had come to a halt, staring out at the ocean. He came up alongside Mark, startling him.

"Steve! You're supposed to still be in the hospital!" he exclaimed in concern.

"I'm fine, Dad," Steve replied, brushing that aside. "Jesse released me." He saw his father staring at him skeptically, and elaborated. "He was going to release me in the morning – I just talked him into doing it a few hours early." 

Mark looked him over searchingly for a moment, attempting to size up his medical condition. Accepting that his son seemed to be in reasonable shape, and recognizing that Steve was obviously determined to be here, he bit back any further protest. There was no point in asking why he hadn't waited for morning to come home – that was fairly obvious. _One more thing to lay to my account_, Mark thought, _if this hinders his recovery_. He looked back out over the horizon.

"Okay, Dad," Steve said quietly. "What's going on?"

"I'm sorry I haven't been around much," Mark said, still staring out at the sea. "I was going to come back to see you tonight. I just needed some time to think and figure some things out before I talked to you. And the hospital just wasn't the place to talk about it."

"Okay, so now we're home," encouraged Steve. "Talk to me."

"I'm resigning as consultant to the police department," Mark said tonelessly.

Steve stared at him. This he hadn't expected. "Why?"

"I just think it's time."

"Because you didn't predict that Connelly would show up with a gun the other night?"

"Because I almost got you killed," Mark said heavily.

"That's funny," Steve replied evenly. "The way I heard it, you were the one who saved my life."

"If I hadn't convinced you to go along with that scheme, you wouldn't have needed saving." Mark managed to keep his voice level, but Steve could hear the pain in it. "And Donaldson would probably be alive as well," he added.

"We don't know any of that. Connelly was probably going to take Donaldson out anyway. And for all we know, another plan might have ended up with me getting hurt even worse. The possibility of getting shot is one of the risks of the job, Dad; you know that."

"I know," Mark acknowledged, "and I've learned to live with it for the most part." He paused to steady his voice. "I know that, even though you're as good as it gets in this job, there's always the possibility of you getting hurt – or killed. But I also know that it's what you want to do, and I would never want you to stop because of me."

"But..?" 

Mark cast a quick glance at his son, then looked back out over the ocean. "But you don't need me adding to the dangers you already face." He went on quickly, forestalling Steve's protest. "Steve, to be as good as you are at this job, and to stay alive in it, you need to have good instincts. And you do. And you need to listen to those instincts, because that's frequently what your life depends on. And that's the very reason I need to back off. I was the one who pushed for that plan to trap Donaldson – you never liked it. You said all along that it was a bad idea. And it was. I should have thought about the danger from whoever was behind Donaldson. But I was so caught up in wanting to catch my friend's killer that I let it override my judgement – and yours. You ignored your instincts to do it my way." He drew a deep breath. "And if you'd been killed because of that, it would have been my fault." His shoulders slumped. "And I'm not sure I could live with that."

Silence lay heavily between them for a moment. The pain in his father's voice tore at Steve's heart. He knew that he had to tread carefully here. This was no passing depression that could be soothed away with simple reassurances or a reminder of all the times Mark's schemes had been the only things that had succeeded in stopping a killer. Informing Mark that the reason Steve hadn't liked the plan was because he'd been worried about the risks to his father wasn't going to help any either. The truth was that Steve had, in fact, pushed aside his own reservations – whatever their nature – to go along with Mark's idea. And as Steve had remarked in the past, his father always insisted on dealing with the truth, no matter how much it hurt. But right now, Steve hated to see just how much his father was hurting.

"Dad, you remember the Sweeneys." The unexpectedness of that remark – it certainly wasn't a question – startled Mark into looking directly at his son for the first time. "You remember after Caitlyn bombed the hospital and took up with ROAR, Carter offered to give us information on her whereabouts in exchange for a transfer to a 'country club' prison facility? Do you remember what you said?" He had his father's full attention now, and went on without waiting for a response. "You said that we were fools to even consider it. You said it was all part of some plan Carter was hatching, and you refused to have anything to do with it. But Carter wouldn't deal with anyone but you, so I talked you into it." It was his turn to pause and draw a deep breath. "And you were right. It was a setup. Carter escaped during the transfer, and the first thing he did was turn around and kidnap you." He held his father's gaze squarely. "And for the next 3 days," he continued, "we didn't know if you were alive or not – and I lived with the knowledge that if I had listened to you, Carter would still be in jail and you'd be safe at home. And I knew that if you were killed before we could find you, it would be my fault." He could hear the echo of remembered pain in his own voice, and knew that his father heard it too.

"But you found me," Mark said softly.

"With your help," Steve agreed with a wry smile. "And you saved my life the other night." After a slight pause, he said quietly, "I do understand how you feel, Dad. But what's the answer? We're only human – and, as you've reminded me many times, we humans make mistakes. And we both know that, in this business, mistakes can be deadly. To either of us, no matter who makes the mistake. So far, together, we've managed to correct most of the mistakes we've made." He paused for a moment to let that sink in before continuing. "We both know that's no guarantee for the future; the risks are always there. God knows you've taken more than your share of risks over the years. And if you decide that you don't want to take that risk anymore, no one could blame you – certainly not me." He smiled slightly, affection warming his eyes. "But I will think it's an incredible waste of talent!"

Mark gazed back at his son wordlessly, unable to trust his voice. The love and understanding in Steve's face warmed him to the heart, helping to melt the cold core of guilt within. _How did I ever get lucky enough to have a son like you?_ he thought. He turned away to hide the moisture he felt stinging his eyes. 

"You know, I don't know what I'd do without you," he said, trying to keep his voice light.

Recognizing that it was time to lighten the emotional atmosphere, Steve replied with a smile, "Well, since I don't want to do without you either, we'll both just have to stick around." He put a hand on his father's shoulder. "Come on, Dad, let's go back to the house and get something to eat. I left before the dinner tray came, and the biggest danger I face right now is starving to death!" That drew a short, somewhat shaky laugh in response.

As they headed back toward the house, Mark turned to look at his son, affection showing clearly through the slight smile in his eyes.

"We do make a pretty good team," he observed.

A relieved smile lit Steve's face in return. "One of the best," he agreed, draping an arm affectionately around his father's shoulders. "Like Holmes and Watson. Lewis and Clark. Stanley and Livingston." 

With a touch of his usual impish humor, Mark replied dryly, "I was thinking more of Laurel and Hardy."

"Well, that's a fine thing to say, Stanley," Steve responded promptly, obligingly giving his father his cue.

"It certainly is," replied Mark in his best Stan Laurel imitation. Steve grinned at his dad, and together they walked back across the beach and into the house.


End file.
